ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN 



A Historical Drama 
In Four Acts 




By MARTIN L. D. BUNGE 



Co-operative Priniery "'^ S SS P'" 6th and Chestnut Sts. 
Milwankee, Wisconsin 



ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN 



A Historical Drama 
- In Four Acts 




By MARTIN L. D. BUNGE 



Co-operative Printery '^SsS ^ 6th and Chestnut Sts, 
Milwankee. Wisconsin 






NOTICE: The purchasing of a copy of this 
drama gives no one a right to reproduce it on 
the stage or in a moving picture show. Note the 
Revised Statutes of the United States, Section 4966, 
and as amended in 1909. 

Permission to perform this 'drama may be ob- 
tained by making application to M. Bunge, 1380 
Twenty-first Street, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, pay- 
ing the price of $15 for a single performance, or 
$100 for one week, including matinees. To obtain 
special conditions for a lo.nger term write to tlie 
above address. 



(Copyright 1911, by Martin L. D. Bunge.) 



2 



K 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

A drama in four acts by Martin L. D. Bunge. 

CHARACTERS. 

JAMES RUTLEDGE, owner of mill and tavern in 
New Salem. 

MRS. RUTLEDGE, his wife. 

ANNIE RUTLEDGE, daughter. 

MARY RUTLEDGE, another daughter. 

PETER RUTLEDGE, son. 

RUTLEDGE'S BABY. 

SQUIRE GREEN, justice of peace. 

AUNT NANCY, his sister. 

JOHN McNeil, a wealthy young store keeper. 

ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

A. BROWN, a doctor. 

N. SMITH, a farmer. 

S. MILLER, owner of a sawmill. 



ACT FIRST. 

Family room in Rutledge's hewn log tavern, 
where John McNeil and Abraham Lincoln boarded. 



Fire in the fireplace. Mrs. Rutledgc is spinning, 
the father reading the papers, Peter learning. 
Mary sewing, Lincoln reading a law book'. Annir 
is not present at the beginning of the act, but en 
ters with her baby sister after a few persons havv 
spoken, a pretty girl of twenty. 

Father (looking up from his paper): Where i- 
.\nnie? 

Mary and Peter both: Yes, mother, where i> 
Annie? 

(Lincoln lifts his eves from his law books and seems inter- 
ested.) 

Mother: She is dressing the baby for the 'night. 

Annie (entering with the baby in her arms) sings: 
Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber * * * 
The lullaby becomes softer and softer, finally dying away. 
Annie puts the baby into the cradle during the first stanza 
of the lullaby, then rocks it, sitting in a chair near her mo- 
ther before another spinning wheel which she operates just as 
the occasion permits. 

Mother: I suppose the little sister will sleep 
tight. She did not sleep much during the day. 

Annie: What a dearie that little girl is! I love 
to take her and watch her first smiles. How tiny 
arc the little hands and feet. Everything shows 
the first stage of human developmftit, and still her 
blue eyes seem so deep; thoughtfully wondering, 
as though they were the expression of a meditat- 
ing soul. They remind me of Woodworth's saying: 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; 

The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 
Has had elsewhere it's setting, 
And comes afar. 

In these clear eyes nature reflects sun, moon 
and stars, the rainbow, the flowers, the trees; 
all that is beautiful in the world and wakes dim 
presentiments of a great creation of God. 



Lincoln: I wish I could set my words as well 
as you can, Miss Rutledge! And how noble your 
thoughts are! 

Peter: Mother, I wonder if Annie was ever so 
small as baby sister is now? 

Mother: Certainly she was, my boy, and looked 
like baby sister looks now. 

Peter: And now she has grown so big, and can 
do so many things. She makes me kites, helps me 
with my lessons, bakes cakes for me, and does 
many other things for me. 

Lincoln (to Peter). I wish I had such a sister! 

Mary (eagerly) : Yes, and she doctors my dolls, 
and helps me sewing doll's dresses; she cooks good 
meals, she knits stockings and darns those that 
the wild boys tear every day. 

Peter: Girls tear stockings, too! Don't you 
know how quickly she darned yours when you 
climbed the cherry tree, so that mother should 
not scold? 

Annie: Hush, children! Nobody wants to hear 
eulogies on me! Save them till I am dead; then 
it's the proper time for singing all my merits; the 
funeral day is the proper day for eulogies. 

Peter: You shall never die; I won't have it. 

Mary: If you die, I would cry till I was dead, 
too. Then they would bury us two in one grave. 

Mother: Don't talk of sad things while we are 
so happy in our little family circle. 

Annie: Only John is not with us. Where may 
he stay so long? Do you know where he is, Mr. 
Lincoln? 



Lincoln: He has business at the store tonight; 
but I think he will be here very soon. 

Peter: I can't make my arithmetic, Annie. Help 
me! 

Annie: All right, my boy; come here. 

Lincoln: No, let him come to me. I shall enjoy 
helping: him. 

Peter comes in. 

Annie: You are very kind. 

Mrs. Rutledge: Mr. Lincoln is so good hearted. 
I always have the feeling as though he were one 
of our family. 

James Rutledge: I remember when wc saw you 
first, Lincoln. You had your flatboat run up 
against my dam and had a hard time to get off. 
In fact, we all thought you could never make it. 

Mrs. Rutledge: Yes, it was quite a sight to see 
you stranded at that mill dam. The whole village 
watched you. We were all interested to see how 
you would come out. 

Mary: Even Annie, Peter and I watched you 
almost all the time. We saw then how you trans- 
ferred your goods from your boat to another that 
you had borrowed from Johnnie Smith. You 
rolled the barrels forward and bored a hole in tin 
end projecting over the dam to let out the water 
that had leaked in. Then you slid over. 

Mrs. Rutledge: When you had committed that 
feat the whole crowd of villagers that had watched 
you became enthusiastic and cheered all they could. 
Do you remember to have noticed any one of us? 

Lincoln: I saw Annie, I should say Miss Rut- 
ledge, standing on the shore, waving her kerchief 
from the bank, cheering the stranger. I could 
never forget the picture! 

Annie: (somewhat embarrassed): I wish John- 
nie would come home! 



Lincoln (aside, as if absent-minded) : That pic- 
ture has ever been before my soul. That is the 
magnet that drew me to New Salem. 

Mrs. Rutledge: Do you still have a mother liv- 
ing, Mr. Lincoln? 

Lincoln: My own mother was buried in the wil- 
derness when I was nine years old. I remember 
the day of her death. We were called to her bed- 
side in the rude log cabin. She laid her hand on 
my head and said: "Be good and kind!" The next 
day we were all alone without a mother. As there 
was no undertaker in the wilderness her funeral 
was very plain. Father cut the lumber for her cof- 
fin with a whipsaw and nailed it himself. Then we 
buried her in the forest all alone. 

Mrs. Rutledge: Your life must have been a very 
hard one. 

Lincoln: Yes, and the stamp of hard labor and 
all kinds of struggles can be traced in my rugged 
face, while your daughter Annie looks as though 
not an hour of privation or sorrow had touched 
her sunny nature. 

Annie: It is true my life has been smooth and 
even. Under the protection of my good father and 
dear mother, surrounded by beautiful nature, I have 
learned to know neither want nor disappointment. 
Life seems pure sunshine — all joy. Of course, I 
have my work. Ours is quite a family, as you 
know. There is washing, ironing, cleaning, cook- 
ing, baking, sewing, knitting, darning, patching, 
spinning — work without end. But I enjoy my 
work, and find even time enough for study. I am 
so glad you let me have that grammar. I have 
learned almost all in it. Mentor Graham is also 
teaching me. My dear betrothed, John McNeil, 
has so little time. Else he would teach me; and 
I would enjoy so much being taught by him. He 
is so wise. 

Peter: I want some bread, Annie! 



Annie: Say please, little man, and give' me a 
good brother's kiss. Then you shall have some. 
Peter says "please" and kisses her. 

Lincoln: I wish I were your brother! -. 

Annie: Why? Do you want some bread? You 
may have some. 

Mary: Give me some, please. 

Annie, Mary and Peter leave the room, the two younger 
playfully teasing the big sister. 

James Rutledge: Let us have a game of check- 
ers, Lincoln. It is not good for you to sit over 
these law books all the time. Law makes a man 
callous for the natural promptings of his soul. 

Lincoln. That depends a good deal on whether 
a man takes a formal aspect or looks at the prac- 
tical side of it; whether he looks at it with a sel- 
lish mind or a feeling, loving soul. For a man 
that is bound to be of benefit not merely to him- 
self, but to all mankind, everything, even the study 
of law, is a source of exaltation. But I may pause 
a little. Take your pipe, and while you smoke we 
shall talk about our time and its needs; you have 
read the St. Louis paper and may tell of what is 
going on in the world. 

While James Rutledge prepares his pipe, Annie and her 
sister and brother re-enter. Peter and Mary go to a corner of 
the room with their bread, while Annie gets some yarn and 
says: 

Annie: Who will hold some yarn for me? 

Lincoln: Let me do it, Miss Rutledge, while your 
father and I speak of, politics. 

(Lincoln takes the yarn, and while Annie is winding it, 
tries to play some little tricks with his clumsy fingers, holding 
the thread back, etc., against which Annie laughingly remon- 
strates.) 

James Rutledge: Talking of politics is not very 
pleasant, my dfear Lincoln. Nothing but the slave 
question is written and spoken of. You shall see, 
we shall have a civil war about this damnable thing, 

8 



sooner or later. This slave institution \> a curse 
for a civilized nation. 

Lincoln (with great earnestness and fervor): 
Certainly, m^^ dear Rutledge, it is a great curse. 
I tell you when I saw slavery first, 1 became stung 
by it to that degree, that since then I am thinking 
and ruminating what I might do to fight it. I shall 
be up against it one day, as the time when you saw 
me first run up against your mill dam. I had never 
seen anything of this abomination. But on that trip 
I came to New Orleans, and there we witnessed 
horrible scenes in the slave market. We saw ne- 
groes in chains, whipped and scourged. One morn- 
ing I saw an auction going on; a young, decent 
looking mulatto girl, vigorous and comely, was be- 
ing sold; against her entreaties and protestations 
she had to undergo one examination after the 
other at the - hands of heartless bidders, who 
pinched her flesh, made her trot up and down the 
room like a horse to show how she moved. The 
thing was so revolting to me that slavery ran the 
iron in me right then and there. "Boys," said I 
to my companions, "By God, let's get away from 
this; but if I ever get a chance to hit that thing 
I'll hit it hard." 

Peter: There is someone at the door. I'll bet 
John is coming home 

Annie (blushing) : 3o quickly, open the door, 
that he might have soire light in the entrance. 

(When John McNeil enters, Annie meets him with a face 
radiant for "joy, stretching out both her hands. John shakes 
liands all around. Lincoln bids him very heartily welcome. 
They meet like good friends.) 

Annie (drawing her betrothed to the door) : 
Come into the kitchen and have a cup of tea. That 
will warm you up. 

(Both go out.) 

Lincoln: I am sorry I spoke of such a sad 
theme when Miss Annie was here. Her pure mind 
should not be troubled with so sad a picture. But 



every time I think or hear of slavery my fervor 
runs off with me. 

James Rutledge: Be at ease, my friend Abe. 
That was not the first time she heard of it. I have 
often spoken of it in the family circle, as I have 
grown up among- the cruel pictures of slavery, be- 
ing born in Kentucky. 

(To McNeil, who re-enters with Annie.) 

We are just speaking of slavery, John. 

John McNeil. You better stop speaking of it. 
It's a nasty theme. I do not like to hear of it. 
It's anyhow not of our concern. If the Southern- 
ers want slaves, let them have them. What is that 
to us? We have no slaves, consequently no slave 
question. Let the South alone, then they will let 
us alone. 

Lincoln: There I differ with you, John. This 
thing concerns all of us. Are we not one nation? 
Are we not brothers? Should we tolerate our 
brothers to taint themselves with this crime? You 
shall see, my dear John, there never will be peace, 
never be true union, never a sound basis for pros- 
perit3^ until we have abolished this abominable in- 
stitution of slaver}'. 

J. Rutledge: I agree with Lincoln, and I know 
what I am speaking of. I have had my experience. 
Slavery was the reason for my leaving my old 
home. It was as though God spake to me as he 
spoke to Abraham in olden times: "Get thee out 
of thy countr3^ and from thy kindred, and from thy 
father's house, unto a land that I will show thee; 
and I will bless thee and thou shalt be a blessing." 
But it is a sad story. 

Annie (caressing him) : You must not tell it, 
father, it will make you sad. 

J. Rutledge: I shall tell it to Lincoln, as he is 
very much interested in the subject. 

10 



A. Lincoln: Who should not be interested in a 
question that is of so vital an influence on our pres- 
ent age? 

John McNeil: Well, I am not. Come, Annie, 
let's go into the other room and have a game of 
checkers. 

(The mother, with Annie's help, moves the cradle into the 
sleeping room. Then retires with the children. Annie and 
John go into another room. So James Rutledge and Lincoln 
are left alone.) 

James Rutledge. Yes, you shall hear my story, 
my dear Abe. You see, my father used to be a 
well-to-do planter, so we had many slaves working 
for us. Among them there was a young mulatto 
girl, who was almost white and very pretty. She 
had been educated at a convent, and father bought 
her to have a nurse and, later on, a teacher for 
me, as my mother died when I was born. So she 
was with me from my babyhood — being sixteen at 
the time my father bought her — till I was seven- 
teen. She loved me like a mother, and I loved 
her as a son. She was so good and taught me so 
many noble things that I could not help but love 
her more than anybody in the world, even more 
than my father. For all my willfulness and many 
tricks she had only kindness and firm but loving 
guidance. When I was seventeen a gentleman 
friend of my father saw her, and began to follow 
her with a vile and lustful passion that he called 
love. He offered my father a great sum for her. 
But I implored my father not to sell her, so he 
refused, though his circumstances had become more 
and more straitened from year to year, as he 
was a gambler. But this man, knowing my father's 
weakness for hazard games, made his plans accord- 
ingly. And there came a night when my father 
had lost all till up to my dear teacher, and then set 
her up against five thousand dollars on one card. 
He lost and soon after committed suicide, as he 
could not survive his beggardom. I shall never for- 
get the morning when this rascal, who had ruined 



my father, seized my dear teacher, tied her and 
threw her into his wagon as his property. I shall 
never forget her cries, her face full of anguish, her 
entreaties, her prayers that were never heard. That 
day I swore I would get out of the territory of 
slavery and never set my foot there again. And 
God has blessed me here. 1 have gained here by 
my own work all my father had lost, in spite of 
others working for him. 

Lincoln: It must be terrible to live among 
slave-holders. 

James Rutledge: Yes. it is deteriorating to char- 
acter. 

Lincoln: I am glad your children have not grown 
up in such surroundings. I don't think Annie would 
be what she is had she grown up there. 

J. Rutledge: You are taking great interest in 
Annie, Lincoln. By God, I wish she had preferred 
you to this superficial John. 

Lincoln (confused) : Do not misunderstand me. 
my dear James. John is one of my best friends, 
and I envy him nothing. The thought of jealousy 
never entered my mind. My feelings toward Annie 
are more those of a good brother or friend than 
those of a lover. You see, my life has been a 
hard one. The woman that I have loved during 
my life, my mother, my stepmother, my sister, have 
gone to early, forlorn graves, after having suffered 
many a hardship. Now Annie's undisturbed seren- 
ity and peace fills my heart with high ideals, with 
unspeakable joy and gives me a certain poise. The 
thought to possess her never occurs to me, but I 
feel such an ease and comfort when she is around. 
There is one thought predominating in me in re- 
gard to her and that is: May her life be always 
happy and no disappointment ever come to her; 
may she be blessed forever. 

James Rutledge (pressing his hand): You are a 
good fellow! Good-night. I am sleepy. 

12 



Lincoln: Good-night! 

(Just then Annie and her lover enter.) 

Annie: Are 3^011 goino; to bed, father? 

Rutledge. Yes, my orirl, and you had better fol- 
low ni}^ example. 

Annie: Yes, I -hall du so! Good-nioht. father! 
Good-night, gentlemen! 

All: Good-night. 

( Rutledge and Annie retire. Lincoln and John remain.) 

John: Well, Abe, how do you feel to-night? You 
are looking so sober. Has the slave question 
roused 3'our mind or is there some love trouble? 

Lincoln: There is nothing at all. You know I 
am not much of a gay fellow. I am most of the 
time ruminating. 

John: I believe you have something else on your 
mind. Say, do you know what I have found out? 
You are in love with my girl. I saw your, eyes fol- 
low her so intently to-night. I suppose you love 
her and hate me for having forestalled you. This 
is quite a joke. 

Lincoln: Don't talk nonsense. 

John: No, I know what I know, I have my eyes. 
But I tell you. If you want her I shall retreat. 
There are lots of pretty girls around here. 

Lincoln: John, -you ought to be ashamed to 
speak thus of the maiden that has given to you her 
virgin heart and has put in you all her confidence 
and all the love that there is in a young, sound girl of 
twenty; seeing in you her ideal; hoping from you 
fulfillment of all she expects of life. I tell you, 
John, I take some interest in her, the interest of a 
friend. And I expect, yes, I demand, of you to 
make her happy, really happy. Do you hear me, 
John, really happy. You shall watch over her that 

13 



no storm ever crushes her couragce, no 'frost chill 
her love. Do you hear, John? 

John: Hush, don't get agitated! I was only jok- 
ing. Who tells you I might disappoint her? I 
mean well with her. Of course, I like to be inde- 
pendent. I am for independence, just as you are 
for union, ahvays talking the states ought to re- 
main united. Isn't that a good joke? We two 
represent independence and union. Isn't that a 
good one? Hah, hah, hah! Well, good night! 

Lincoln: Good night, John. 

Remaining alone, he walks restlessly up and down, stirs up 
the fire, sitting before it meditating. Then stands erect as ab- 
sent-minded. Abruptly the following words come from him: 

A girl like her would stand no disappointment. 
She would die of it. What did Rutledge say? 
Love? Is that love? Yes, but there are different 
kinds of love, very man^^ different kinds. Two main 
classes are: Selfish, so-called love, which is bound 
to possess, to enjoy, and selfless real love, which 
is bound to serve, to bless. Should I think of 
such a happiness as living in closest union with 
such a maiden? No, such happiness is not for me. 
If I could only stay near her all my life and watch 
her like a faithful watchdog watches a baby. Might 
I have the power to keep those lips always smiling, 
those eyes always sparkling; to keep all sorrow, all 
grief, all disappointment from h^r; to bless her all 
the time. That would be happiness enough. My 
life's mission is to give, not to take, love. 



14 



O CD (O 



ACT TWO. 



Family room on Rutledge's farm, whither he has moved 
after having sold mill and tavern. Mrs. Rutledge sits knitting 
while her husband restlessly paces up and down the room. 

Mrs. Rutledge: Come James, sit down. Smoke 
your pipe and read the paper; or let us have a lit- 
tle friendly chat. Don't walk around that way! 
What is the matter? What is vexing you? Is the 
bay horse still, lame? 

James Rutledge: Bosh! The bay horse! Did 
you ever, in the long time that we have been mar- 
ried, see me worried and restless on account of 
such a trifle? But Annie! Our daughter, our dar- 
ling! Don't you notice how she is waning away, 
day by day, worrying and worrying over her faith- 
less lover? 

Mrs. Rutledge: Certainly, my dear James. I 
noticed it long ago. Do you think a mother is 
blinder than a father. But I try to keep up spirits 
as best I can. For if we also give way, who shall 
cheer her up. Many a sleepless night have I been 
lying and ruminating and speculating what I might 
do to keep her mind from the thing that makes her 
so miserable. I asked her the other day to visit 
Squire Green for a while. You know he is such a 
jovial old fellow, and his sister, Aunt Nancy, _ as 
we all are used to calling her. She is so talkative. 
And then, Mh\ Lincoln, our postmaster and sur- 
veyor boards there. He is such a good fellow, he 
would certainly have a wholesome influence upon 
her. But she declines. She says she must be busy 
sewing her linen, as John might come any day 
to marry her. She still believes in him, after all 
that happened. He told her his real name was 
not McNeil, but McNamar. Does not that look 
rather suspicious. And now he has neglected her. 
When he left her little fingers were busy procuring 

15 



for him what mijjht be of comfort to him on the 
road. Tears fell on her work. With tears in her 
eyes she accompanied him a little piece of way. 
Tears fell on the letters she used to write daily. 
Did he answer? Once or twice. And what was 
in his letters you could see in her face when she 
was reading them. Think of all the nights the 
poor girl has cried in her bed. Think of all the 
anxiety, the disappointed hopes. And still she 
believes in him. And still she expects his return 
every day. She is so wrapped up in that love as 
if it were the only stronghold her young life had 
to cling to. 

James Rutledge: I can hardly understand it. 
Such a pretty, such a good girl, and so neglected! 

Mrs. Rutledge; There are many who would 
highly cherish what this Mr. McNeil, or McNamar, 
whatever his real name might be, disregards. 

James Rutledge: Now there is, before all others, 
Mr. Lincoln. He is such a noble, good-hearted, re- 
liable fellow. He is poor, it is true, but he has 
high aims, and I will bet anything that he will 
come to something one of these days. I often had 
talks with him on deep subjects when he boarded 
with us in the tavern, and found that he is an ex- 
traordinary man. I should not wonder if he would 
be one of the greatest men in this country some 
day. But she does not take to him. They are good 
friends. Both have that longing for knowledge, 
and they study together. But aside from that she 
has eyes for no man but this McNamar. 

Mrs. Rutledge: Well, you see, James, if Lin- 
coln had been with us before this McNamar came, 
it might have been dififerent. But as it was, Mc- 
Namar, or as we called him then, M'cNeil, was the 
first man that struck her untouched, virgin heart 
with that pleasing sentiment that captivates a 
maiden's heart. So he had the benefit of all the 
unsuspecting, implicit confidence, of all the pure 
love, all the fluttering hope that lingers in a sev- 



enteen-year-old girl. Believing to see personified 
in him all her great ideals, she looked at him with 
eyes that were blind to all defects, and the radi- 
ance of a girl's first love thrown around all his 
acts and words, made him appear quite a hero — 
made him her idol. 

James Rutledge: You are f4uite a philosopher, 
my good wife. Where did you find all these deep 
thoughts? Were you reading books lately? 

Mrs. Rutledge: Go with your books. My life is 
a book. My troubles make me philosophize as 
well as my joys. I tell you, since our girl has had 
this great disappointment I have meditated over 
many things I have never thought of before. But 
Annie is coming. Be careful what you say, James. 
You know she is very sore, very sensitive of late. 

James Rutledge: I know, but I shall learn the 
truth! I am her father. I must protect my girl. 

Annie (enters, traces of tears in her eyes): Is 
there a letter for me, father? 

James Rutledge: Not yet, my dear Annie. 

Annie. May I take the buggy and go to the 
postoffice, father? 

James Rutledge: That would be useless. You 
know Lincoln is surveying at the present time, and 
he generally brings the mail around when passing 
by. Especially in case you would have a better 
from John, he would not be slow in bringing it. 
You know how great an interest he is takino- in 
you. 

Annie: Yes, Mr. Lincoln has always been very 
kind to me, very kind, almost like a brother. He 
lends me books, he advises my studies, he does me 
all kinds of favors, never expecting anything in re- 
turn. I never met such a kind man before in my 
life, besides you, father. If he had not consoled 
me during the time John is gone, I don't know 
how I could have stood it. When there came no 



letter for six months and I was at the postol'ticc 
ever}' time the train came in, he, seeinj? the anxiety 
in my face; spoke so friendly to me, telling me of 
all kinds of possibilities how a letter might have 
been lost, or how John could have been prevented 
from writing. And when the people in the village 
began to slander John, learning that he had changed 
his name and that he neglected me, as it seemed 
to them, Lincoln nobly defended his friend. 

James Rutledge: He is certainly a far better 
man than this McNamar. 

Annie; Please, father, don't say anything against 
John. He is so good. We don't know what pre- 
vents him from coming and writing. If he could, 
he would come at once and marry me. Perhaps 
he has found sorrow at home, and his love for his 
poor parents makes him sfay longer than he in- 
tended to do. What was it besides his good heart 
that induced him to leave me and to look after hi.-. 
parents, whom he knew to be in utter destitution. 
There are- many sons neglecting their parents. Not 
so John. As soon as he had gathered some money 
by his industry and thrift, he felt, as though he 
ought to share his good fortune with those whom 
he owed so much. I know how hard it was for 
him to leave me, but his filial duty made him part 
in spite of his great love for me. 

James Rutledge: Do you still believe in his love. 
.Vnnie? I don't want to hurt you. But it is better 
ii)r you to see clearly, otherwise the disappointment 
might be too sudden and the more unbearable. a> 
you are not prepared. Think of all that happened 
since he left. Compare all his acts with what you 
naturally expected him to do and ask yourself clear- 
ly and without bias whether or not he is deserving 
of your love. 

Mrs. Rutledge: There comes Aunt Xancy. 

Aunt Nancy (entering): Good afternoon to all 
of you. 

i8 



All: Good afternoon. 

Aunt Nancy: Well, how are all of you? Isn't this 
a nasty day? Oh, my goodness! I am sure a 
storm is coming up. But I could not refrain from 
peeping in and seeing what my dear Annie is do- 
ing. I hear so much about her all over town. 
They all say she is sick on account of her faithless 
lover. Oh. my goodness! 

Annie: Hush. Auntie, don't tell me what the 
people in the A'illage are saying. 1 am not inter- 
ested in it. I wish they might not be concerned 
about my purely personal affairs. 

Aunt Nancy: But, I don't care, it's a shame. 
Mow this man acts! No matter what you are say- 
ing, the people are right. Oh, my goodness, such a 
man. He is a suspicious character. Why would he 
change his name if he had not some reason for it? 
Some say, he escaped from state prison, all say he 
is either a thief or a murderer. Some claim he has 
a wife and children in New York. 

Annie: Stop; not another word against him! 
Nobody shall speak ill of my dear John, my noble 
lover. Nobody of these vile slanderers in town 
knows anything more of him than I do. All they 
say is only vague rumor and entirely ungrounded. 
He had good reasons for changing his name. He did 
not want his people to come here before he was 
ready to receive them. Nobody but I knows how 
good this young man is, and how much he loves me. 

Aunt Nancy: There is Lincoln coming over the 
farm yard. He will have the desired letter for my 
good little girl, perhaps a letter that \\^1 clear her 
mind in regard to this man. Oh, the men! Oh, my 
goodness! They are bad creatures. Present com- 
pany is always excepted, Mr. Rutledge. 

(Lincoln enters.) 

Lincoln: Good afternoon! T have a letter for 
Miss Rutledge. 

19 



(He hands her the letter, sees her open it, her color leave 
lioi face, and then run out into the garden.) 

Lincoln: She wants to be alone with her grief. 

(A storin is coming up, it's getting dark in the room.) 

Aunt Nancy: Hear how the wind blows, would 
it not be better to call her in? 

Mrs. Rutledge: Leave her alone! The storm in 
nature harmonizes with the storm within her soul. 
When our blood gets tumultuous and is rushing 
through our veins like in a fever, we are better in. a 
storm than in a quiet. Let her fight her battle! It 
is hard for a woman to see herself slighted. 

Aunt Nancy (eagerly): Yes, I know what it is; 
I have had my experiences. Oh, the men! the bad 
men! Oh, my goodness! It's a bad lot. Present 
company is excepted, Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Rutledge. 
You are exceptional men, both of you. But if I 
should tell you all I know of men folks, you would 
be surprised, really surprised. I am selecting my 
words with great care. But this rascal beats any- 
thing I have ever heard of. Don't you believe 
that this man has escaped from prison and has a 
wife and children somewhere, Mr. Lincoln? 

Lincoln: Do not believe such a nonsense. Aunt 
Nancy!! I. for my part do not believe it. He al- 
ways appeared to be an honorable man. We have 
no proof of the contrary; these rumors are abso- 
lutelv without any essence. We will not believe 
bad of him before fully persuaded by clear evidence. 
There is only one thing I can not comprehend, that 
is: how can he neglect a girl like Annie. She has 
now been betrothed to him for four years, the best 
part of her youth has been wrapped up in this man, 
and now he seems to slight her. That I can not 
understand. But we must not judge before we know 
all the truth. 

James Rutledge: Did you watch her face when 
she read the letter, mother? 

20 



Mrs. Rutledge: Yes, it must be a bad one, it 
will be the death blow to her love. She looked as 
in despair. 

Aunt Nancy: The rascal! Oh, my goodness! 
What a man! 

James Rutledge: I wish those thousand miles of 
wilderness would not stand between me and New 
York. I would go there; I would demand my dear 
girl's lost haj)piness from the hands of the scoun- 
drel. I should shoot him if he failed to give satis- 
faction; what right had he to enter our peaceful life 
and tear the best blossom from my family tree and 
after having played with it for a while throwing it 
carelessly away, not caring whether or not it will 
die of it. 

(The wind becomes stronger and stronger.) 

Lincoln: I can not think of Annie being out 
there all alone in the storm. I shall try to find her 
and bring her home and to herself. 

Mrs. Rutledge: Yes, please do so! 

(Lincoln goes out. There is a short silence. The people 
in the room are listening to the wind, till Aunt Nancy breaks 
the silence.) 

Aunt Nancy: There goes a line fellow! What 
a blessing it would be if Annie could take to him! 
T know he loves her dearly. And he is such an ex- 
ceptional man! Everybody says, he is so kind and 
generous. But that's the way t'he girls are nowa- 
days: instead of looking after a man whose charac- 
ter would guarantee a happy life, they rather look 
after a smooth face that will soon get wrinkled by 
vices. It was otherwise with me. I could have hun- 
dreds of men if I would have been satisfied with a 
smooth face. But I had made up my mind to take 
only a good character, a model man. But they are 
so rare. I did not find one. But Annie had the op- 
portunity of marrying a really exceptional man. 
But having to choose between a smooth face and a 
good character, she chose the smooth face. 



Mrs. Rutledge. I fear you misunderstood both 
Mr. McXamar and Annie; and then you forget that 
John McXamar had already captivated her heart 
when she became acquainted with IMJr. Lincoln. 
McNamar is certainly not as bad as people make 
him, but he is thoughtless and inconsiderate. I am 
certain that he would act otherwise if he had the 
slightest idea of what is going on in Annie's heart. 

James Rutledge: I always have known him to be 
a very superlicial character. I could never get him to 
talk about deeper subjects. But he could say pretty 
ijhrases which Annie must have taken for some- 
thing wise interpreting his words with a heart full 
of love. 

Aunt Nancy: They are coming back! 

(Lincoln and Annie enter the room. She is sobbing; he 
tries to console.) 

James Rutledge (taking his daughter in his 
arms) : Now, my girl, tell me the truth, let me bear 
it with you? Is it over with your and John's love? 

Annie: It is all over with his, all over. 

Aunt Nancy: That nasty, ugly, mendacious mon- 
ster! 

Annie: Don't, Aunt; don't speak bad of him. He 
is good. He can not help it if he can't love me any 
more. The defect must be in me. There was not 
enough in me to keep his heart in love any longer 
time than four years. What could he see in a plain 
girl like myself, anyhow? Now, when he got to 
New York and saw the fine ladies, he could not help 
noticing the mistake he had made.' Could he re- 
strain his feelings when they were changed in him 
in spite of his good will? It is only honest in him 
to say outright what is in him rather than to dis- 
simulate a love that he does not feel any more, and 
by doing so bring final disaster over us? Oh, that 
he had never gone to New York, where th<re are so 
many fine ladies! — He still loved me when I said 
"good-bye" to him. — I wonder whether he appre- 

22 



ciated the little tokens of love I worked for him and 
put into his saddle bag? I wonder if he thought of 
me on his way? I wonder when it was that his 
heart changed? My love for him has never ceased. 
From now I shall wander around a spectre and joy- 
less. Life has nothing in store for me any more. 

James Rutledge: He is a scoundrel. I shall 
break his head one day! 

Lincoln: I can not understand him. 

Aunt Nancy. I must tell my brother about it. 

Annie: Please, tell nobody about it! I do not 
want any more gossip about my private affairs than 
there is already. 

Auntie: I must go home! Good-bye, Annie (af- 
fectionately kissing her). Good-bye, my dear one! I 
understand you, if nobody does, my dear, poor, de- 
serted girl! Now you know how men are. Trust 
no one except ]\Ir. Green, Mr. Lincoln, and your 
father! Those three are exceptional men. 

Mr. and 'Sirs. Rutledge accompany her out of -tlie room and 
remain outside. Lincoln and Annie are alone in the room. 

Lincoln: Miss Rutledge, will, you please, permit 
me to tell you that I am deeply grieved, feeling that 
one of my friends has caused you such a sorrow. 

Annie: He was your friend; then you know that 
he was not so bad as the people make him. 

Lincoln: Do not think of what the people are 
saying. Let us try to find the balance between the 
good that was in him and what he lacked, between 
what we expected of him and what he really did; 
then let us lay this unlucky balance to unforeseen 
circumstances, uncontrollable influences and sur- 
roundings. Let us then try to forget the episode 
and begin life anew! 

Annie: I can not forget those four years. How 
much happiness did they give me! From this hap- 
piness I shall nourish my life's joy. 

Lincoln: Miss Annie, I have felt for you like a 
brother since the day I first sa^^^ you standing on 

23 



the shore of the Sangamon River. In an hour like 
this it may be a balm to your wounded pride to 
know that I appreciate what John disregarded, and 
that my heart thinks of nothing but of how I can 
help you bear the great sorrow that has come over 
you. I know your heart is not free, it is under the 
bonds of a great sadness. Our aim must be to free 
your heart. Only when the bonds of the slighted 
love have been taken off, only then you will be free 
for a development of new life. Now I ask you, let 
me help you to free your heart. Let me be your 
liberator! 

Annie: You noble, great man! Y'ou have always 
given, never taken. You are offering your heart, 
knowing that I have no heart to give in return. Let 
me thank 3'ou from my innermost for your selfless 
kindness! Your words begin to give back to me 
self-respect. To know a generous heart caring for 
me is balm for my wounded heart. But it is very 
sore within me. I have to abide the time. During 
this time be my helpful big brother, will you? 

Lincoln: Miss Annie, I shall never cease to take 
care of you. Now, before I go, I ask one promise: 
Pledge yourself not to give way to brooding. Try 
all you can to divert your thoughts. Your house- 
work is something; but do more: take up your old 
studies, and let me study with you. Let me come 
up to you as long as I shall be here, and when I 
shall have been gone to Vandalia to serve in the 
legislature, we shall write to each other about our 
studies. Thus leading your thoughts out of the bonds 
of sorrow to the open sphere of science, you will 
be more and more liberated. Promise! 

Annie: I promise. 

Lincoln : Good-bye ! 

Annie: Good-bye! 

(Lincoln goes.) 

Annie (alone): He is the man to liberate my 
soul. Has he not freed the minds of the many men 
here from the bonds of superstition, or sorrow, or 
vice? Blessed be the liberator! 
24 



THIRD ACT. 



Mrs. Rutledge's garden in the spring. James Rutledge, 
Mrs. Rutledge, their children, Squire Green, Atuit Nancy. 

Squire Green: This is a fine day. It makes a 
person feel like making poems. 

Peter: Ah, uncle Green, could you make poems? 
I thought you were too old for that. How could 
you do it? 

Squire Green: Nothing is easier than that. I 
shall just look around in your garden and take all 
the things I see, and describe them in fine poetical 
language. There is a blooming apple tree, spring 
flowers,^ singing birds, the river Sangamon in a dis- 
tance, freed from winter's ice; and there is your 
sister Annie, a beautiful goddess of spring, also 
freed from the ice, the ice of sorrow. 

Annie: There is right and wrong in what you 
are saying. 

Squire Green: How so? 

Annie: It is wrong to call me a goddess. I do 
not see anything nice in being one. I am rather a 
plain child of nature. But what you are saying 
about being freed from the ice of sorrow is true. 
Really, father, (turning to Mr. Rutledge) I feel as 
though this spring has brought along a new spring 
of life for my young life. This morning, hanging 
the cloth, seeing myself surrounded by new born 
nature, I felt the new life that throbbed through na- 
ture also pulsating in my own veins. The budding 
and blossoming, the humming bees and fluttering 
butterflies, the birds building their nests singing 
love songs, and even the cat licking the warm sun- 
shine from her paw, all seemed to call out to me: 
The winter is gone, nature is free from the bonds 

25 



of cold and rigid winter^ now you also shall be free. 
New sunshine, new life, new happiness shall come 
over you! 

Aunt Nancy: Ycni are well looking, my girl! 
It's the same face I see before me that I saw when 
you were seventeen; only a little wiser; 3'-es, we 
have to get wise about these men folks. Oh, my 
goodness, this McNeil! 

Annie: Hush, do not spoil this beautiful spring 
afternoon by sad remembrances! 

Mr. Rutledge: That is right! Do not let us 
speak of bygone times! Let us look forward into 
a happy future! 

Mrs. Rutledge: Somebody comes home today — 
guess who. Aunt Nancy? 

Aunt Nancy: I knew it long before you, if you 
are referring to the Honorable Mr. Lincoln, as- 
semblyman of our district. He is going to board 
with us, and he is staying all summer. I thought I 
would bring this news to you as a surprise. How 
did you get to know it? 

Mrs. Rutledge: Annie was corresponding with 
him during the last two years. 

Aunt Nancy: But I know more chan you know. 

Mrs. Rutledge. What is it? 

Aunt Nancy: Guess? 

Mrs. Rutledge: I am a poor guesser, tell me! 

Aunt Nancy: He is here already. He is at our 
house. He said, after he had rested and dressed up 
a little, he would come over. 

Peter and Mary: Hurrah, uncle Lincoln is here! 
Hurrah! 

Squire Green: I wonder for whom he is dressing 
up, we are all plain people around here. 

26 



Aunt Nancy: You know how he looked when he 
came on horseback. Did you expect him to come 
here with his blue pantaloons sticking: in his high 
boots? 

(In the distance a voice is heard singing the "Annie 
Laurie," the tone becoming stronger and stronger as the singer 
approaches.) 

(Lincohi appears, shakes hands with all, and is heartily 
greeted in return.) 

James Rutledge: My dear, dear Abe! How 
glad I am to see you back! Well, how are you? 
Did you make good laws? 

Lincoln: You will know from the papers what 
laws arc passed. I am responsible for only a little 
in them; my influence does not yet amount to much. 
But how about your family? 

Mr. Rutledge: All are fine, thank you. But you 
are looking rather haggard. 

Lincoln: I always had more bones and muscles 
than flesh. Besides I am studying hard, being bound 
to pass my examination for the admittance to the 
bar. But Miss Annie is looking fine. 

Mr. Rutledge: Yes, our girl looks well, and we 
know how much we have to thank you for it. Say, 
Peter and Mary, run off to the meadow, see whether 
or not the cows are all right! 

Children. Yes, father! (Run of¥.) 

Aunt Nancy: Mr. Rutledge, we must see your 
orchard. Will you kindly take us there! I spoke 
to the squire about your way of inoculating. 

(All leave except Lincoln and Annie.) 

Annie: My dear Lincoln, I am really very glad 
to see you here with us again. 

Lincoln: Are you, indeed? 

27 



Annie (somewhat embarrassed) : That is, you 
know, there are so many puzzles in my studies that 
I have to ask you. So it is handier to have you 
right here. I do not need to write. I may go to 
the fountain c>f knowledge directly. 

Lincoln; Be not so sure that I am a fountain of 
knowledge for anything, you know I had little edu- 
cation in childhood, and have to labor hard to make 
up for this deficiency. But the little I know is at 
your service. Is there anything that puzzles you 
just now? 

Annie: You know, father often tells us about 
the ill treatment of slaves in the South. Hearing 
that, I often get so disgusted that I wish all the 
slaves might run away. Now, as our constitution 
and our laws consider them rightful property of 
their respective owners and running away a crime, 
is it right for an American girl to wish they might 
do it? 

Lincoln: You might rather wish that a change of 
sentiment throughout the United States might bring 
about a change of conditions so that the slaves 
might become free without doing wrong. 

Annie: But now, another thing: Imagine a fu- 
gitive slave would come to our house asking for 
food and shelter, would it be wrong of me to feed 
him, shelter him, and help him along? 

Lincoln: Our constitution demands of us North- 
ern people to deliver fugitive slaves to their rightful 
owners, and we have to obey the laws. There has 
never been anything good accomplished by disobedi- 
ence to laws. If a law does not seem right to us 
the only way to follow is to influence public senti- 
ment in favor of abolition of a law or a legal con- 
dition. I promise you I shall do all I can to help in 
abolishing this abominable institution. But what in- 
fluence has a plain backwoodsman? 

28 



Annie. You will not remain in rear line. There 
will be a day when you will be standing in the 
front. Often when I am thinking of Avhat you 
have said to me or written in your letters I believe 
that you will become one of the greatest men this 
nation has ever had. 

Lincoln: Do you think of me then and when? 

Annie: The other night I dreamed I saw you 
standing like a giant stretching out your hand all 
over the United States, saying with a solemn voice: 
This land shall be a holy land; it shall not be stained 
by the gross vices of old decayed nations! There 
shall be no slavery or any other outrage any more! 
Liberty and love to all.! 

Lincoln: Do you, sometimes, dream of me? 

Annie: Yes, my dear Lincoln, my thoughts and 
even my dreams have been occupied with you the 
longer, the more. And how could it be otherwise? 
John McNeil's attitude has brought me near the 
border of despair, perhaps insanity. Your noble 
spirit has gently led me back to life. You have 
freed my soul from despondency and I have no more 
fervent wish than that I could repay your kindness, 
that I might do something for you in return. 

Lincoln: My dear Annie, the only return I ask 
is this: Give me the permission — more, the right — 
more, the duty to render like services to you all my 
life. To be in such a position would make me the 
most happy man on earth. My dear friend, two 
years have passed by us in corresponding with each 
other, thus studying besides other things our own 
hearts and minds. Now, are you ready for a lasting 
comradeship, are you willing to become my wife? 
I do not ask your first free love; I know you can 
not give it any more. But give me that love that is 
left within you. Let us work together for the high 
ideals we have talked of so often. 

29 



Annie: My dear Lincoln, you certainly deserve 
a better wife than I can be to you. And in the capi- 
tal, where you are spending most of your time as 
legislator, you have all the chances to meet young 
ladies of high culture who will be more qualified for 
aiding you in the high tasks that are before you. 

Lincoln: Don't you know that very often a rude 
and selfish heart is varnished over with this so-called 
high culture. All I need is interest in rny ideals. 
You are just the congenial spirit that inspires me 
and supports me. And now, come, be good, do not 
delay my happiness any longer. Give me your 
promise! Be mine! 

Annie (Giving him both hands) : There, Lincoln, 
take all that is left of me. With all that is still 
within me I shall be your faithful wife, and share in 
all your labors, your troubles, and your joys. There, 
take me in your big arms, and press me against your 
noble heart. That shall be my refuge place from 
now and ever more; there I shall flee from the bil- 
lows of life's stormy sea. 

Lincoln (pressing her against his breast). This 
heart shall always beat for you, my arms shall work 
for you, my brain think for you! I do not know of 
greater happiness than to live for you! 

Annie: And how happy am I! This is truly 
bliss! I was never as happy as now. My former 
happiness was a restless joy. This is peaceful joy. 
Near you all that has ever troubled you has van- 
ished, all discords are dissolved in the great har- 
mony of purer love. I feel so safe, the blood flows 
evenly through my veins, the tingle in my nerves 
seems to suggest a great holiday. 

Lincoln: Our entire life shall be one great, con- 
tinuous holiday. Our characters are strengthened 
and cleared by our life's experiences. We have high 
ideals and no evil tendencies. We love us and our 

30 



fellow beings. So there is more than one prognosti- 
con for a life without a shadow. 

Annie; Now, when does my lord want the wed- 
ding to take place? The linen was ready long ago. 

Lincoln: If I would rashly follow my sentiment, 
I would want to have us united as soon as possible. 
But, you see, I am very poor, as my aim has been 
to procure knowledge rather than riches. Up to my 
twenty-second year I worked for my father, having 
very little opportunity for schooling. Since I have 
been here in New Salem I have devoted all my spare 
time to the acquisition of knowledge. Since I have 
been a member of the legislature I have assiduously 
studied law. In a few months I shall have finished 
this study; then I shall build up a practice and build 
a home for us two. Then nothing on God's foot- 
stool shall keep us apart! 

Annie: I am almost afraid to live apart from 
you for a while. The peace of mind that emerges 
from you may leave me some time. But I will tell 
you what I may do meanwhile. I'll go to the Jack- 
sonville Academy, where my brother is studying, 
and there preparing me for the task of being a great 
lawyer's wife. 

Lincoln: Do that, my Annie! You and I shall 
not know anything of a dead level of attainment in 
our life. Always onward with the great evolution 
of the universe towards perfection our aim shall be 
to be more and more qualified for working for our 
fellow beings. You and I know that there is very 
little satisfaction in a narrow life for oneself, but 
that there is all the bliss in a broad-minded working 
with and for the great evolution. These high aims 
will unite us when our bodies be old and bended, 
our love ennobled by them will last forever. 

Annie: My dear strong Lincoln; my noble man, 
God bless you! 



31 



FOURTH ACT. 



Place: Lincoln's law office in Vandalia; furnished very 
plainly; fire in the fireplace; law books on a big table. Lincoln 
in sitting position, then rises, paces the room, and begins this 
soliloquy: 

Lincoln: Our life is like a journey up hill with 
stations marking our attainments. I have reached 
several stations since the time I split rails for my 
father's fence. Now, having attained my admission 
to the bar, my next aim shall be to build up a prac- 
tice large enough to support my dear Annie and 
myself; then having built a nest for us, I shall as- 
sign the date for our wedding day. Then the sum- 
mit of my life will have been reached. I shall then 
be on top of the hill. There will be nothing more to 
wish for 

' — I w^onder why it is that she did not write 

for the last two weeks? Has her health failed 
again? Could I be near her, all the time, she would 
be well, and I should not be worrying. (Knocking 
outside.) Hark! Somebody is knocking. The long 
desired client, perhaps! Come in! 

(Mr. Smith, a young farmhand, enters.) 

Smith: How do you do? Is this the new law- 
yer, Lincoln? 

Lincoln: My name is Lincoln, and I am a law- 
yer. 

Smith (slyly): Well, I have a job for you. There 
will be some money to be earned — money, that's 
what the lawyers are after, aren't they? 

Lincoln: What do you want? 
32 



Smith: Well, you know, I want to revenge my- 
self on my brother. He insulted me; he called me 
a lazy dog. He is always criticising me, thinking 
himself a lot, because he's the oldest, and father is 
dead. But 1 am of age, and am going to show hmi 
that I can do something; if nothing more, make 
him lose som€ money; that will make him wise; 
he'll leave me alone after this. 

Lincoln: Perhaps your brother had some reasons 
for criticising you, and he most likely meant it well 
in trying to correct you. 

Smith: That's nothing of your business, lawyer. 
Just listen to my case! Last winter I stayed with 
him and helped him doing chores. He did not pay 
me a cent for this. Neither expected to pay any. 
But I will sue him. I'll make him pay. He'll be 
surprised when T send him a bill through a" lawyer, 
for five months" wages. Isn't that a good joke? 

Lincoln: I am a lover of a good joke; but in this 
I see only something that saddens my heart. Now 
answer: Did your brother hire you for the chores? 

Smith: No. You see, I was out of work, and 
having no other place to go, it was the most natural 
thing for- me to go to the old homestead which my 
brother owns now; and being there, I, of course, 
helped him. 

Lincoln: Your brother opened his house for you 
as a refuge, and you want to play such a dirty trick 
on him, just because you feel hurt by his good ad- 
monitions, which were meant as a benefit to you. 
And you want me to help you in this. No, my boy; 
I shall never lend my hand to bad deals like that. * 

Smith: What is that to you, as long as you can 
make some money by this? I shall pay you well; 
lawyers are after the money. That's what they have 
always told me. 

33 



Lincoln: You are not rightly informed. Our 
main aim is not to get money, but to help admin- 
ister justice. We want to assist everybody to get 
what belongs to him. We stand for everything that 
is right. And you expect me to assist you in what 
is wrong? Get out of here! 

Smith (leaving the room): Then be damned! 
I'll find somebody that will take my case! 

Lincoln (calling after him) : One word, my man. 

Smith (coming back slowly) : Well, what do you 
want? 

Lincoln: Come, my boy, do not proceed in this 
any further. Go home to your brother, and con- 
sider whether or not your brother is really your 
best friend, and not those that have incited you to 
evil revenge. Do not shut your brother's door 
against you; there may be other days when you will 
need a home! Do not mean to reap anything good 
from sowing evil! Sow love that you may harvest 
love always! Be a good boy and settle this in 
peace. I^Iind. it is your own brother! 

Smith (accepting Lincoln's outstretched hand): 
You may be right! Thank you! Good-bye! (Leaves.) 

Lincoln (alone) : I shall rather die poor than 
get rich by advocating evil! My Annie thinks the 
same way. She would not like to have her wedding 
day hastened by unjust means. 

(Somebody knocks.) Come in! 

S. Miller: Are you Mr. Lincoln? 

* Lincoln: I am; what can I do for you? 

S. Miller: My name is Miller. I own a saw- 
mill, and had some trouble with one of my workers. 
Though I have given strict orders to all my work- 
ers- to be careful, he was careless, and stuck his 

34 



fingers where he should not have put them. He 
reaped the natural result from his carelessness — 
four fingers were taken off by the machine. Now 
he wants five hundred dollars damages. It would 
be bad policy to reward his disobedience with five 
hundred dollars. My, that would be a stimulus for 
others to be careless, or perhaps stick their fingers 
in wantonly; five hundred dollars is a great sum for 
those poor devils. They would give more than four 
fingers for such an amount of money. So I want 
to hire you as my lawyer in this litigation to have 
this nonsense stopped and have it made clear be- 
yond all doubt that Miller is not the man to reward 
carelessness with five hundred dollars. 

Lincoln: I think I rather do not take your case. 
My sympathy goes to the poor man who became a 
cripple in trying to earn his daily bread. 

S. Miller. You seem to be an inexperienced law- 
yer — to side with the man who has no money to 
pay you. You are utterly wrong; your side should 
always be with those who pay. the most. You 
might be foolish enough to take the side of the 
man, if he would offer his case, though you would 
never get a cent, as I have the money and am going 
to fight this up to the Supreme Court. 

Lincoln: Certainly, I would take his side. The 
poor, honest workers give their life, their whole at- 
tention, energy and effort into the output of useful 
work. And now, that a laborer has, for a moment, 
forgotten the constant danger that surrounds him, 
lost his attention, for a second, dulled by the daily 
grind, and the machine has taken his fingers, you 
want me to help you dodge the responsibility, to get 
out of the necessity of paying the poor cripple a 
small sum with which to begin a new existence. No, 
sir, I would not do it for all the money in the world! 

Miller: You must be pretty rich to be so inde- 
pendent! 

35 



Lincoln: My clear sir, let me tell you that I am 
in need of money more than ever before; I am 
sorely in need of it. But my conscience and my 
honor can never be bought. I shall never be a man 
rich in money, if I can only be rich in love, and in 
tlie respect of my countrymen! 

Miller: You seem to be one of those infernal, 
unpractical dreamers. I mistook you for a shrewd 
lawyer. But having found what you are, I do not 
want 3'our service. (Goes.) 

Lincoln (meditatively) : That would not have 
been in Annie's spirit. We both pledged ourselves 
for justice and love to all. (With outstretched arms) 
Oh, Annie, my dear girl, how I long for you! 

(Somebody knocks.) Come in! 

(In comes Squire Green, with sad countenance.) 

Welcome, Squire Green. What is it that brings 
you here? I am glad to see you in my new office. 
But, why so sad? You do not bring anything sad? 

Green: j\Iy dear boy, I have to bring you bad 
news. I hope you can bear them like a man. Be 
strong! 

Lincoln: What is it? Annie is not sick again? 

Green: You know, she has really never quite 
overcome the shock she received when John Mc 
Neil left her. Her spirits revived for a while. She 
seemed well and happy. But that was not strong 
enough to last. We believed in her recovery; she 
herself did. But her vitality had suffered fatally, 
her heart had been broken. And now she died. My 
dear Abraham, Annie is dead. 

Lincoln: Annie dead! That cannot be! Her 
heart broken, you say; her heart that loved me so 
and was loved by me! That cannot be! How could 
that be possible? (Buries his face in his hands.) 

36 



Green: See, my dear friend, with a girl's heart 
it is as with a flower. If the frost has gone to the 
roots, a new sun may bring forth life for only a 
little while; it cannot last. The more complete 
Annie opened her heart to her first lover, the more 
complete was the ruin of her young life. The sun- 
of your love could produce a short spring of happi- 
ness, but it could not completely restore the vigor 
of her inner life. As long as you were with her she 
was well; but when you had gone her overstrung 
nerves made her more and more a victim of despon- 
dency. As John McNeil's last letter had been in 
vague terms, she — in her nervous state — accused 
herself of faithlessness. Finally she passed away as 
a light that extinguishes when its nourishment is 
gone. 

Lincoln: I cannot bear it! 

Green (after a pause) : My dear boy, I know it 
is hard. But Time, the great healer, will heal this 
wound. Annie spoke only of you in her last hour. 
She asked me to bring to you her thanks for all you 
have been to her. And now, farewell! I shall leave 
you, for I know you will find the balance of your 
mind better left all to yourself alone. Remember, 
while she is gone from us, her pure spirit will abide 
with us. We shall not only remember the noble 
thoughts she uttered, but the very atmosphere of 
her great soul will remain with us. Good-bye, my 
^oy, good-bye! 

Lincoln: Good-bye, my dear Green. 

(Lincoln paces up and down the room, then sits down be- 
fore the fire, stares into the glow, then springs up again.) 

Lincoln: Annie dead! My happiness, the object 
of all my plans and works is gone. What is life 
to me after this has happened? I wish I also was in 
a grave! — In a grave — ? is she in a grave, this 
lovely girl; in the gloomy grave! This tender form 
enclosed in a tomb, covered with earth! Hark, the 

37 



wind is howling! And Annie is all alone in the 
cemetery, all alone in that wind! She was once 
alone in a storm. Oh, how can I bear to leave her 
alone in the storm! 

(At once he beholds an apparition in one corner of the 
room, resembling the form of his deceased bride.) 

Lincoln: What is that! — Is that your 'spirit 
Annie? Speak to me, if spirits can speak! 

Annie's Spirit: Abraham Lincoln, do not despond 
on my account; do not even mourn for me! A 
union with me was not your destiny. Your exist- 
ence shall not be wrapped up in me. You have a 
greater task that shall fill your whole life. The 
summit of your uphill march is not a love feast 
with a single human being, but a love feast with 
your entire nation. Your big heart shall belong to 
all! You shall embrace millions! This great love 
will cost you your own life, but you shall not have 
lived and died in vain. All coming generations will 
gratefully remember you and your noble life's work. 
This grief that pains you now is good for you. It 
will tear you from anything that is small and 
drive you to do the greatest. Have thanks for all 
your selfless l-ove, now turn your heart from me to 
all men, old and young, poor and rich, black and 
white. Care for justice for all. Good-bye, my Lin- 
coln. 

(Apparition disappears.) 

Lincoln (standing erect, his hands outstretched as 
to the place where the apparition disappeared): My 
Annie, you have gone from me, but your spirit shall 
not leave me, and kindle me to great, noble deeds. 
It shall be as you say: My heart shall belong to 
all. I pledge myself to do justice and love to all, 
malice to none. 



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